“I’m staying,” he said. And the way he said it—low and rough and certain—told her he wasn’t talking about tonight.
He carried her to the bedroom. The new curtains filtered the afternoon light into soft gold. She pulled him down and held on.
Afterward, she lay with her head on his chest.
“The bag in the closet,” she said. “The packed one.”
“What about it?”
“Unpack it.”
He kissed the top of her head.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
The holiday market opened on Saturday.
Main Square had been transformed overnight. White tents lined the perimeter, strung with lights that glittered against the December gray. Vendors sold handmade crafts, baked goods, local honey, and ornaments made from shells collected on the beach. A brass quartet played carols near the fountain, slightly off-key but enthusiastic.
Ronan stood at the edge of the crowd and tried to remember the last time he'd been to something like this. A festival. A community gathering. An event where the only objective was to show up and enjoy yourself.
He couldn't think of one.
"You look lost."
He turned. Sid Hoffman was standing beside him, a paper cup of cider in one hand and a knowing expression on his weathered face.
"Just taking it in."
"Taking it in." Sid nodded slowly. "That's one way to describe standing on the edge of a party looking like you're planning an extraction route."
"Old habits."
"Yeah, I’m aware of those." Sid took a sip of his cider. "Grace used to say I looked at every room like I was counting exits. Took me three years to stop doing it automatically."
"Does it ever go away completely?"
"Nope." Sid's tone was matter-of-fact. "But it gets quieter. Moves to the background. You stop noticing you're doing it." He gestured toward the crowd with his cup. "You see that woman by the honey stand? The one with the green scarf?"
Ronan looked. A woman in her sixties, with gray hair, was laughing at something the vendor said.
"That's Eleanor Tisch. She's been coming to this market for forty years. Same booth every time. Buys honey for her sister in Tallahassee, even though her sister's been dead for six years." Sid shrugged. "Habit. Ritual. The things we do because we've always done them."
"That's depressing."
"That's life. We're all just doing the same things over and over until we die. The trick is picking things worth repeating." Sid clapped him on the shoulder. "Go find your girl. She's been looking for you for ten minutes."
He walked off before Ronan could respond.
Lila was standing near the tree lighting platform, her clipboard in hand, her phone pressed to her ear.
She looked harried. Beautiful, but harried. Her hair was escaping from its ponytail, and there was a tension in her shoulders that meant something had gone wrong.
She ended the call as he approached.
"Problem?"
"The tree lights aren't working. Half the strand is out, and the electrician won't be here for another hour." She blew out a breath. "Patricia is supposed to flip the switch in thirty minutes."
